


Amnesiac Delight

by BardofEryn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Lies, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Overly elaborate plotting, Pining, Secret Relationship, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Temporary Amnesia, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley did not think this through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28255185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofEryn/pseuds/BardofEryn
Summary: Crowley gets knocked in the head by a football and loses his memory. The one thing he's sure of is that he and Aziraphale are married. Aziraphale must nurse him back to health while confronting his own feelings about their relationship.Teens and up because, knowing me, there will be some swearing.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 85





	1. A Blunt Beginning

“Crowley?”

“Crowley?” the demon echoed. “What the heaven is a Crowley?”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale breathed. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the little brat who had kicked a football at Crowley’s head running for the hills. They had been out “fraternizing” in the park when the boy took it into his head that Crowley looked like a goalpost.

“Is my _name_ Crowley?” he asked as he lay bruised on the ground. “What sort of name is that _Crowley_? Can I be called something else?”

“I’ll call you whatever you like; we just have to leave _now_!” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Can you stand?”

“Of course, I can stand,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow. Almost as soon as he did it, he collapsed back to the ground. “I just need for everything to stop spinning is all.” He smiled at Aziraphale. “Or you could carry me.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow and fiddled with his hands. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he tried to heal him. He suspected something bad, what with heavenly and demonic influences mixing. At the same time, they were drawing a crowd and he didn’t like the idea of Crowley going to hospital. Too many eyes, too much attention. He had to get them away.

He slid his arms under Crowley’s shoulder blades and knees, took a deep breath to steady himself, and lifted.

Crowley laughed as he was hoisted into the air. “I was joking,” he said. “But if you’re up for it…”

“Not much choice at the moment,” he interrupted, looking around for the nearest taxi stand. He spotted one at the end of the park.

For someone as tall as Crowley was, he was fairly light. Not light enough for Aziraphale to carry him to the nearest taxi stand without panting, but light enough that he could do it. It helped that, a few minutes into their awkward lumbering, Crowley wound his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. It was slightly disconcerting how he nuzzled into his collar, but he had to suppose that the head injury was making him behave oddly. He pushed aside a few tourists, uttering breathless “Excuse me”s and “Pardon me”s, and stumbled into the cab at the front of the queue. He set Crowley down as gently as he could beside him, which was less setting down and more dropping him.

The cabbie was looking at them strangely. 

“He got mugged,” he said, not knowing where the lie came from. He tried to push Crowley further into the cab, only to have him fall head first into his lap. “I just need to get him home.”

“Alright then Mr…”

“Fell.”

“Mr. Fell, what’s the address?”

\--

Fifteen minutes later, they were at Aziraphale's bookshop. As Aziraphale helped Crowley out of the cab, he pondered what had possessed him to bring Crowley to _his_ home. Crowley had a perfectly serviceable flat and if they were caught together…

“Best not to think about it,” he murmured as he pulled Crowley’s left arm across his shoulders so Crowley could use him as a crutch.

“Think about what?” he said, seeming to wake from a trance. He looked around, his brow furrowed. “Where are we?”

“At my bookshop,” he said, trying his best to sound cheery. He dragged him forward. “In we pop!”

“In we pop?” he echoed. He looked at Aziraphale, a fond smile on his face. “Are you a bookseller or a nanny?”

“Neither,” he said, turning his face away from Crowley’s. It was odd to see him so comfortable and happy. It made him feel things he wished he wasn’t feeling.

“Let’s get inside,” Aziraphale said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as he was lead into the bookshop and upstairs. He whistled when they got to the top of the stairs.

Aziraphale blushed. No one had ever been to his bedroom before – not since he’d furnished it. It was designed to be a refuge for deep contemplation and restoration. Thick, blue velvet curtains hung by the sole window on the western side of the room. The bed was along the eastern side with its head against the wall. It was big with crisp white sheets and a blue, quilted coverlet. Next to it, closest to the door, sat a mahogany nightstand. A very nice and colorful Victorian rug covered the wood floor around the bed. In the far right corner stood a writing desk that dated back to the Baroque era. On it sat some of the books he felt needed more delicate care as well as some copies that “customers” just kept picking up and trying to buy from him. One of them was the quarto version of _Twelfth Night –_ the only copy in existence, if that young man with the glasses who had tried to pay him 10,000 quid for it was correct. Overall, it was cozy with little splashes of luxury.

“You can afford all this by selling books?” Crowley asked as he looked around the room.

“I make do,” he said as he ushered him to the bed. He threw back the covers and eased him onto the mattress. “Shoes off,” he said as he removed Crowley’s shoes. “Legs up.” When he didn’t move, he gave Crowley a look – the one he’d perfected during WWII when trying to get stubborn, wounded soldiers to stay in bed.

Crowley looked confused and a little concerned, but put his legs on the bed.

Aziraphale relaxed a little. “Good. Now, get some rest,” he said as he pulled the covers up and tucked them around him. “You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Right, love,” he said as Aziraphale turned to walk downstairs.

He stopped mid-step. “Love?”

“Do I not say that enough?” Crowley asked. He turned on his side and buried his nose in the coverlet. “Of all the ways to find out that you’re a piss-poor husband.”

“Husband?” he echoed, turning on a dime. 

“Have I got that wrong?” he asked. Aziraphale could almost see the look of confusion behind his dark glasses. “Maybe I haven’t popped the question yet,” he murmured.

“You most certainly…” He grimaced and closed his eyes. “We are not having this conversation,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him as if he could manifest a physical barrier between Crowley calling him “love” and himself. “I am going downstairs and making tea. I will be back up in an hour to check on you. Good day!”

“Oh, don’t be like that, love,” he moaned as Aziraphale hurried towards the stairs. “If I haven’t done it yet, I will soon. Just give me the chance to find a ring!”

“Not having this conversation!” he shouted from halfway down the steps. 

Once he was back in his bookshop again, he let his strong front drop. He plopped down on the bottom step and cupped his face in his hands. He was exhausted and distraught. He wished he could go back upstairs and lie on the bed, but now Crowley was up there.

Of course, it was at this exact moment that a customer walked in.

“We’re closed,” he murmured from where he’d collapsed on the steps.

“What?” she said, walking closer to the stairs. “Are you alright?”

“I said, ‘We’re closed,’” he repeated sharply.

She reared her head back. “The sign says…”

He got up, marched over to the door, and threw it open. He pointed at the sign. “The sign says ‘I tend to close around 3:30 p.m. or earlier if something needs tending to.’” He glared at her. “Something needs tending to.”

She didn’t move, seemingly glued to the spot by an angry angel fussing at her.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, _here_ ,” he reached into a pile of books and miracled a copy of _Ulysses_ into his hand. He walked over and shoved it into her hands. “Take it and leave.”

“This is a first edition,” she said, gazing at the book with astonishment. “I can’t just…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, taking her by the shoulder and ushering her to the door. “My treat. Don’t thank me. Have a nice day!” He pushed her out the door and slammed it on her, being careful to lock it this time. He flipped the sign from “open” to “closed.”

“Tea,” he said, already walking towards the kitchenette. “I just need a cup of tea.” 

—

Crowley snuggled up in Aziraphale’s bed. He couldn’t imagine his plan going any better. True, it involved getting hit in the head with a football - he still had to pay that kid ten quid - but it was worth it if he could _finally_ get Aziraphale to admit his feelings.

Or turn him down entirely.

Maybe he hadn’t thought this out as much as he should have.

That was future Crowley’s problem. Right now, he had a cozy bed that smelled like Aziraphale and enough time for him to think of _something_. What had he said? An hour? That was plenty of time to put together a scheme.

If he didn’t doze off first. He had to hand it to him, Aziraphale was extremely good at tucking people into bed. Not so tight that you felt constricted and not loose enough to lose the feeling of being tucked in. He burrowed deeper under the covers and let himself sink into the warmth and love that radiated from the bed.

Within seconds, he was asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to give it away in the tags, but lying Crowley versus an angel who may just open up if he thinks things are reciprocated is the main premise of this. It may or may not backfire. Only one way to find out!
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated.


	2. Falling Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is forced to wing it after sleeping through what should have been his scheming time. Aziraphale makes a decision.

Five cups of tea later, Aziraphale still didn’t know what to make of Crowley’s behavior.

He glanced at the clock. It was approaching an hour since he and Crowley had last spoken. He needed to go check up on him soon. He hated to think what would happen if he discorporated.

 _I suppose I could always say that I killed him,_ he thought morosely as he climbed the stairs. _It’d mean some paperwork, but it’s better than the alternative. I could always get him something afterwards. A ‘sorry I took credit for discorporating you’ gift._

At the top of the steps, he glanced towards the bed. Crowley was fast asleep. He had managed to curl his way around a pillow as he slept and was now holding it to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world to him. For an instant, Aziraphale thought of himself in the pillow’s place. He quickly banished the thought. “You are hereditary enemies,” he murmured to himself as he walked over to the bed. “Get a hold of yourself!” He stopped just short of the side rail. Asleep, he could almost imagine what Crowley’s angelic form had looked like. 

It was a pity he had to wake him.

“Crowley,” he whispered. When that didn’t budge him, he very gently reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “Crowley, you need to get up,” he said a bit more loudly. “It’s once every hour for twenty-four hours, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm?” He uncoiled from around the pillow a bit, his glasses falling askew. “What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Do you have your memory back?” he asked.

“Memory of what?” he asked sleepily.

“Of who you are and who I am.”

That seemed to wake him. He tossed the pillow to one side and sat up against the headboard, hurriedly pushing his glasses back into place. “Well, you’re my husband.”

Aziraphale drooped. “I’m afraid not,” he said.

“Oh! That’s right. I haven’t proposed,” he said. He leaned towards Aziraphale. “Really sorry about that, by the way. I hope, when I get my memory back, I have some excuse worth making for not settling down with a beautiful, kind, intelligent…”

“Yes, er…" Aziraphale interrupted. He pointed at the opposite end of the room. "Oh, look at that! Right over there!” he said.

“Where?” Crowley asked, looking towards the spot where Aziraphale had pointed.

Aziraphale didn’t wait for him to look back at him. He rushed towards the stairs, nearly tripping and falling in his hurry. Once he got to the bottom, he put his hands on his knees and tried to breathe deeply. “Calm down, old boy,” he told himself. His heart was pounding. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just… Just…”

 _Crowley apologizing for not marrying me,_ his thoughts hurtled on, _and calling me…_ “Beautiful,” he breathed, trying to sort out the meaning in his own head. He had been called many things before – old-fashioned, out-of-shape, fussy, peculiar – but he’d never been called “beautiful.” 

“This is ridiculous!” he said to himself as he walked towards the kitchenette. He grabbed two slices of bread and put them in the toaster. “You are an _angel_ and a _demon_ ,” he said as he gathered a plate, a knife, and a napkin. “You are _enemies_.” He pulled the butter dish out of the refrigerator. “You can’t care for one another. It’s… It’s against the rules!” The toast popped up. He put the slices carefully on a napkin, cut them into triangles, and began spreading butter on them. “You’ll just have to talk to him,” he said as he tucked the toast into the napkin. “Explain the whole thing. That you can’t just…” He looked down at the plate. He’d forgotten the tea. “Just _be together_ ,” he continued. He set the water to boil and reached into the back of his cupboard for the Ceylon tea. He had just put the leaves in the strainer and was waiting for the kettle to go off when he realized what he was doing. “Oh no,” he moaned, sinking down to the floor. He was making Crowley afternoon tea. Not only that, he was making Crowley tea _the way he liked it_ – buttered toast with a cup of Ceylon. It had just seemed natural to him. Too natural. 

He pulled his knees to his chest and tried to think about what this meant. As much as he talked about enemies, he knew, deep down, that he loved Crowley. He’d known since WWII when Crowley had saved his books for him. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he knew before then. He didn’t know if Crowley had guessed his feelings. He hoped not. He’d done his best to conceal them. The little, loving glances he’d give him were nearly all aimed at the back of his head. He only let his face light up at the sound of his voice if his back was to him or if he was in shadow. He’d been ever so careful. Or, at least, he thought he was. And now Crowley, or at least the version with no memory, was telling him that his feelings were returned. That he loved him back. He hadn’t thought it was possible.

For an instant, he imagined what it would be like if this were all okay – him making Crowley tea, Crowley in his bed, Crowley calling him beautiful. He imagined sitting on a bench in the park, not caring who saw them talking or laughing with one another. His chest warmed; His muscles relaxed; A pleasant feeling, a bit like being drunk, enveloped him. It felt like home. Like heaven before the war.

Then, as quick as they had come, the feelings disappeared. He was left with the harsh reality that he and Crowley were enemies and that, if he knew what was good for him, he’d refrain from making his foe tea and toast ever again. 

He put his forehead against his knees and sobbed. Partly for the harsh truths. Partly because he now knew how Crowley must have felt when he fell from Heaven. 

—

Crowley stared at the ceiling. He’d gone too fast. He always went too fast. He chucked his glasses onto the nightstand, put one of Aziraphale’s pillows over his face, and despaired. “Ten quid, a ball to the head, and I _still_ fucked it up,” he moaned. He pulled the pillow off his face and looked up towards the heavens. “You know,” he said. “Plunging me into boiling sulfur was enough. You didn’t have to come up an impossible Romeo-Juliet situation on top of it.”

Twenty agonizing minutes later, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Aziraphale appeared along with… buttered toast and tea? He quirked an eyebrow at him. He wouldn’t _mind_ buttered toast and tea, but it was hardly what he expected from someone who had run out of the room as if it were on fire a few minutes ago. He reminded himself that, despite Aziraphale not wanting to host people very often, it was part of the angelic job to be a good host when you had to. Or, at least, that’s what Aziraphale had told him the handful of times he had had guests over.

Aziraphale put the plate of toast down on the bedside table and handed him the cup of tea. “Ceylon,” he said. “The way you like it: dash of milk, no sugar.” 

Crowley’s heart fluttered. He knew how he liked his tea. He’d noticed. He took a sip, pretending to not know if he’d enjoy it. His face lit up. Not only was it the way he liked it, it seemed to be filled with the essence of love. He glanced at him, wondering how he could convince him to make a whole pot.

That’s when he noticed the red around his eyes. 

“Did something happen, love?” he asked, setting the cup down on the nightstand. If that twat Gabriel had made him cry…

“Nothing,” he said, averting his gaze. “Is the tea alright?”

“It’s wonderful tea,” he said. “Did someone hurt you?” 

“No. No,” he said. He sat down on the end of the bed and cupped his chin in his hands. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the southern wall.

“Less pain, still no memory,” he lied. He sat up and reached for Aziraphale’s back so he could put a comforting hand there. His hand hovered centimeters over the angel’s waistcoat before he pulled it back under the sheets. “You can tell me, you know,” he said. “If something’s wrong.”

Aziraphale smiled weakly. “I really can’t,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“Because…” He paused. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“I…” He looked at Crowley. “Do you really not remember _anything_?”

“Not a thing,” he said. He looked up, as if searching his brain for something. “Well… except…”

“Except what?”

“It’s hazy,” he said, trying to think of an appropriate memory. He smiled. “Something about a play. No one was coming to see it.”

“Yes. Yes!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. He turned to face Crowley. “Do you remember the name?”

“Of what?”

“The _play._ ”

“Oh…” He put on an exaggerated thinking face, vaguely wishing he still had his goatee. “Omelette?”

“No.”

“Pamphlet?”

“Slightly warmer.”

“Ham pit?”

“ _Hamlet_. It was called Hamlet.” He smiled wistfully and began fiddling with his hands. “You did a very nice thing for me that day.”

“Did I?” he asked, barely suppressing a smirk.

“Yes, you tempted up a crowd for the play. It’s quite famous now.”

“Even with that blessed speech about being and not being in it?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Yes! That’s one of the most famous,” Aziraphale replied, proving he was, in some respects, an idiot. He got up from the bed. “To be or not to be. That is the…”

“You _really_ don’t need to recite it,” he said. “I remember it now.”

“Oh. Right,” he said, sitting back down on the bed. “Sorry.”

“There’s something else,” Crowley said, getting on a roll. “Something about you wanting crêpes.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, climbing up onto the bed in his excitement. He looked like a little child who had just been told they were getting a puppy. It took all of Crowley’s willpower to not wrap him up in his arms and tell him all the stories in the world. “Yes, I wanted crêpes. What else?”

Crowley tried to hide his smile. “You were wearing… something ridiculous.”

Aziraphale wiggled his head back and forth. “Well…”

“No, I remember that clearly. It was a ridiculous costume. Made you look like a nobleman of some sort.”

“What else _besides_ the costume?” he said, tapping the bed for emphasis.

“You were chained up or something. I…” Crowley snapped his fingers. “And then you weren’t. You bought me lunch. Coq au vin, was it?”

“Crêpes,” he replied. He smiled shyly. “It was crêpes.” He looked down at his hands. “It was an awfully good time.” He straightened up and cast a nervous glance at Crowley. “Er… Apart from the people getting their heads cut off.” He cleared his throat. “That was decidedly… bad.”

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, remembering that lunch. “I watched you eat a whole plate of crêpes,” he said absent-mindedly. “I had tea. Not really my thing, crêpes. But you. You were so happy.”

“Lemon and sugar,” he added. He flinched a smile. “The best type really. Although chocolate and poached pears come in at a close second.”

“Let’s go get crêpes now,” he said, leaning towards Aziraphale.

“What? Right now?”

“Yeah! Why not?”

“Because you’re suffering from a head injury,” Aziraphale said, looking more than a little concerned.

Oh yeah, he’d forgotten about that. He clasped the side of his head and moaned. “Don’t talk about it, angel,” he whined. “I’d forgotten the pain until you reminded me.”

“I’m not sure that’s how head injuries…”

“Ow! _Aziraphale_!”

“You remembered my name!”

Shit. Well, that would make talking to him easier. “Did I not remember it before?” he asked, doing his best to look confused.

“No. You kept calling me ‘love.’”

“Well, you know why that is,” he said, inching closer to him.

Aziraphale flashed him a nervous smile. “Er… No, not really.”

It took a great deal of willpower for Crowley to not look up to the heavens and berate God for not only making him love an angel, but also an angel who was incredibly thick. “It’s because,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand. “I love you.”

Crowley expected him to pull away. To run out of the room like he’d done twice before. Instead, he felt him squeeze his hand.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, half in a whisper. He put his other hand on top of Crowley’s. He looked him straight in the eyes with an expression resembling the one parents make when they have to tell their child that Santa Claus isn’t real. “Well.” He licked his lips. “I… You see, _you_ …” He gestured between them with the hand he’d placed on top of Crowley’s. “We are…” He averted his eyes. Crowley felt a little sorry for him. He looked like a long-suffering dog who had just been put out in the rain. “We’re…” He squeezed Crowley’s hand and, with the tone of a man who has just lost a very important argument, said, “We’re in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A last minute decision there on Aziraphale's part. Let's hope it works out. 
> 
> Comments appreciated as always!


	3. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a little more insight into Crowley's and Aziraphale's plans.

Aziraphale made three things very clear:

1\. He did love Crowley back.

2\. He and Crowley were not married and it would be difficult for them to become married.

3\. He would take care of Crowley until he got his memories back, but then he had to rush back to his flat.

Much to Crowley’s surprise, he left out the whole “hereditary enemies” thing. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to make it seem like they were two ordinary humans. _Not sure what the point in that is_ , Crowley thought as he bolted down his supper. Aziraphale had made him soup, seeming to forget that he and Crowley had argued for days over whether soup was a food or not after getting oysters in Rome. (Crowley was firmly on the side that it wasn’t and eventually Aziraphale conceded to it not being “a hearty meal” if done poorly.) He gazed down at the bowl. Was he going to have to keep eating as long as Aziraphale was pretending they were humans? The thought made Crowley’s stomach churn what he’d already eaten of the sweet and sour mess masquerading as tomato soup. He liked eating, but nothing a person might consider “healthful” or “good for keeping up strength.” Shakshouka at a high-end Moroccan restaurant was quite different from tomato soup out of a can (even if they did both contain tomatoes). He darted a glance at Aziraphale, who was looking through a thick medical text. He snapped his fingers and made the soup disappear, presumably to the deepest pits of Hell. “All done, love,” he said, holding up the empty bowl.

“My! That was fast,” Aziraphale said. He took the little, gold glasses he wore for reading off the tip of his nose. “Would you like more?”

“No! No, love. One bowl is just right,” Crowley said. He gave him an imploring look. “I am feeling a little cold though,” he said, doing his best to be enticing. He squirmed further onto one side of the bed, leaving an exactly Aziraphale-sized space.

Aziraphale frowned. “I haven’t read that anywhere,” he said, flicking through the pages of his book to double check. He got up from his chair and crossed over to the bed. He leaned over the empty space so that he could place his lips against Crowley’s forehead.

“Ngk,” Crowley said smoothly.

“No fever,” Aziraphale said after a moment. He pulled away and looked into Crowley’s eyes. “Do you keep your flat warmer than this?”

He did, but right now the most coherent thought he could put together was: “Kiss.”

“I’ll get some blankets,” Aziraphale said. He straightened up, pulled on his waistcoat to smooth it out, and left the room.

“Fuck,” Crowley managed as soon as Aziraphale had left. He buried his face in a pillow. He had thought about the first time that Aziraphale would kiss him for millennia. He’d imagined a picnic along a nice little stream. Aziraphale would have brought lunch, something decadent and probably involving pears. Crowley would recite love poetry and they’d fall into each other’s arms. He’d never thought it would be in Aziraphale’s bookshop as a way to check on his health. “Blesss it all,” he hissed. He had to remember what the people on that terrible soap had done. That’s what had given him the idea. It had come on right after _The Golden Girls_ a couple of weeks ago. Something about a woman who had amnesia revealing her true feelings towards her husband’s brother while she didn’t know she was married. On that show, everyone seemed to get everyone’s hints. When _she’d_ said she was cold, the husband’s brother had dutifully taken it upon himself to get into bed with her (shirtless, of course) and make sure she was warm. After that, they’d started having PG-13 sex and Crowley had turned off the telly. He’d seen enough sex both up close and from far away to know it wasn’t that interesting when you weren’t involved.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley looked up to see Aziraphale with his arms full of what he suspected were newly miracled blankets. They were all tartan with different shades of blue and pink on them and he’d never seen them in the shop before.

“I should have realized,” Aziraphale continued as he took the first blanket and draped it over Crowley. “You are… Erm… That is, it’s in your nature to be cold,” he said. He draped the second blanket over the demon, making sure to tuck it around Crowley this time. “Not as warm-blooded as myself, I suppose.”

“Guess not,” Crowley said as he turned onto his side. The blankets did make the room less chilly.

“There you are!” Aziraphale said as he spread the last blanket over the bed. “No need to burrow.” He tucked it around him before sitting on the end of the bed. “Nice and snug.”

Crowley nodded. The warmth and having Aziraphale here again was having a calming effect on him. It was making him sleepy.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked.

“Burrow?” Crowley asked as he turned to face the angel.

“For warmth, I thought. I assumed that’s what you were doing with your face in that pillow.”

 _Right_. “Bit of a chilly nose, yeah,” he said, finding no other explanation that put him in even a remotely good light. He tucked his nose under the blankets.

Aziraphale pat him lightly on the side. “Well, you should be warm enough now,” he said. He picked at a loose pink thread on the top blanket, then pat Crowley again. “Rest if you can,” he said as he got up and began walking over to his chair. “I’ll be here.”

Crowley hoped Aziraphale would never know how those three words put a spell on him. The angel already had far too much power over him as it was. If he knew how those words made Crowley relax and his brain go fuzzy, he'd be just enough of a bastard to use it when Crowley was in the park or when they went to a new restaurant. For now, he could enwrap himself in the blankets and let Aziraphale's presence wash over him until he fell asleep.

\---

Aziraphale’s plan was simple: try to savor every moment the pair of them had together before Crowley remembered what he was and what Aziraphale was to him. Once Crowley realized that they were on opposite sides, the demon would surely go back on everything he had said. He _must_. Crowley knew what Hell would do to him if they found out about any of this. Aziraphale certainly had some inklings. It would be hard to hear, and even harder to bear, but he would keep a stiff upper lip as he always did. Until then, Aziraphale would pretend that they were not on opposite sides of a millennia-long, cosmic, cold war, and he wouldn’t let Crowley know about it either. _I do hope he won’t be cross with me_ , he thought as he tucked Crowley in for the night. _I just can’t bear to part with him, and it really is better for his body if he stays here. Who knows what sort of damage that football did to him?_ After bringing him tea and toast that afternoon, Aziraphale had done some frightening research on what blunt trauma strong enough to force amnesia did to a person’s brain. It usually included other parts of the brain not working, permanent loss of all memories, or an inability to make new memories. Thankfully, Crowley wasn’t exactly a person, and wasn’t presenting any of the more dangerous symptoms. Still, he did have a body and that body had a brain.

 _It would be reckless to leave him alone_ , Aziraphale reminded himself for the fifth time that evening. He did wonder whether watching him during the night like this was strictly necessary. Then, he thought of all the complications and dangers his research had revealed and settled back in the comfy chair he had arranged in the south-west corner of the room. Sitting up with him wasn’t unpleasant, by any means, and, if it kept Crowley from discorporating, all the better. He flipped through his copy of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ and picked up where he’d left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had to be a short chapter because it didn't flow with the next chapter very well, but contains vital information. Also, this is all I could manage with my computer on the fritz.  
> There's a longer chapter coming, I promise!
> 
> Comments appreciated as always!


	4. Afterthought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realizes one of the problems with his half-baked plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long on this. My computer died and I’m still learning how to make an I-pad work. I just figured out today how to copy and paste select bits of text rather than the whole document. Since I keep Amnesiac Delight as one big document with all the chapters in it, that means that today is the first day I’ve been able to post this!
> 
> (Yes, this is kind of Aziraphale-like. No, my penchant for technology is not going to change. If I’d had a choice, I would have continued to work with my ancient laptop with the touchpad that doesn’t work, but here we are.)

Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale watched him as he slept. He’d nearly discorporated the first time he’d rolled over and seen grey-green eyes staring at him from the dark. After that, he largely kept his back to the angel and listened to him turn the pages of his book until he fell asleep again. Of course, this was when Aziraphale wasn’t waking him up to check on him. He really did wake him “once an hour for twenty-four hours” as if by clockwork. (He doubted it was actual clockwork. He suspected Aziraphale had a heightened sense of time when tending to people. Or a watch.) He really wished Aziraphale would just let him have a good night’s sleep, but, when he suggested it, the angel had started listing off the possible complications of amnesia – most of which sounded like something his side would think up.

“It’s just for twenty-four hours, dearest,” Aziraphale said as he tucked Crowley back into bed. Crowley tried very hard not to blush. He wasn’t sure what the upgrade in endearment meant to Aziraphale, but it was making him feel tingly all over. “Then you can sleep for as long as you please.”

Crowley didn’t want to sleep “as long as he pleased.” He wanted a night’s sleep so that he could acclimate to the new situation and think of something. He hadn’t imagined his plan working this easily or quickly. He’d thought he’d have to insist for a couple weeks that they were married and then wait a month for Aziraphale to say anything back. (Humans got amnesia for that long, right?*) He’d had five different plans for how to make that happen, but nothing for “Aziraphale tells me he loves me within a couple of hours.”

“Please don’t be cross,” Aziraphale said, seeming to mistake his silence for brooding. “I promise that, after twenty-four hours, you can have the room to yourself.”

“But I don’t want that,” Crowley said, slithering out from under the covers and towards Aziraphale. He gave him his most tempting smile. “I want you.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You shall have me, dearest,” he said, “just as soon as I make sure you won’t…” He paused, his eyes darting about. “As soon as I make sure you’re in good health,” he said after several moments’ deliberation.

Crowley squished the side of his face into one of the many pillows that lay on Aziraphale’s bed then looked up at him dolefully. 

Aziraphale squeezed him lightly on the shoulder. “Twenty-four hours,” he repeated. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Crowley nodded. Of things he had done for his angel, lying in bed and being woken up once an hour was on the easy side of things. It was downright comfortable, if he could stop worrying about Aziraphale figuring things out.  _ Play along _ , he thought as he snuggled back into the bed.  _ The plan is working. He’s admitted to loving you. Anything else, you can roll with.  _

He relaxed in the bed, letting the warmth and protection of a Principality wash over him. He was safe here. No one would harm him. Not even…

His eyes shot open. “Hassstur,” he hissed to himself.

“Did you say something?” Aziraphale said, already halfway to his armchair.

“Nothing, love. Just moved my head wrong,” he lied. Inwardly, he berated himself for not factoring head office into his plan. They were used to him popping off the radar for a couple of weeks, but he always had something to show for it afterwards – even if it was something the humans had come up with. He didn’t know how long Aziraphale was going to keep playing human nursemaid, but experience suggested it could be months. He  _ hoped  _ it would be months. Having so much of the angel’s unrestricted attention was making him love drunk in the best possible ways. Taking it away after only a few days would almost be worse than never having experienced it at all. 

“Do you get any newspapers?” Crowley asked, not daring to move.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said, looking up from the book he’d just opened. “Oh, I don’t generally indulge except for the crossword. Why?”

“Just thought it might help with my memory,” he said. In fact, he was going to use the newspaper as a way to figure out what he could take credit for while he was here. Surely, there would be some sort of new gadget, religious intolerance, or coup he could claim was his idea.

“Oh.” Crowley could hear Aziraphale carefully inserting a bookmark into his book. “If you think it would help, I can certainly get one. Any paper in mind?”

_ A tabloid _ , Crowley thought. Tabloids were always good for fake demonic work. They were practically predicated on misery. “Any paper would do,” he said, deciding the tabloid was too risky. He had asked for a newspaper after all.

“I’ll go get  _ The Daily Telegraph  _ once we’ve passed the twenty-four hour mark,” Aziraphale said before opening his book again.

_ Close enough _ , Crowley thought before closing his eyes. Maybe he could claim something about bigotry or intolerance.

\---

Aziraphale watched his hereditary enemy fall asleep out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to leave to get a newspaper. He didn’t know why, but he felt as though, the moment he left the bookshop, everything that had happened in the last few hours would come crashing down. Crowley would discover that Aziraphale had kept their status as enemies a secret from him and never want to talk to him again. He shuddered, trying to banish the thought from his mind. Crowley would understand. If any part of the demon that lay before him was inside the demon he’d come to know and love, he’d understand. He pursed his lips and focused on his book again. He was on the last scene. Everyone was getting their happily ever after in the most peculiar ways. He focused on the last line. “On the contrary, Aunt Augusta,” he read, “I’ve now realized for the first time in my life the vital importance of being Earnest.” 

Aziraphale shut the book with a snap.

“Oscar Wilde was not prophetic,” he murmured to himself as he switched out the play for his signed first edition of  _ The Picture of Dorian Gray. _ “The poor man could barely see past his own nose in terms of consequences.”

Still, as Aziraphale knew, prophecy did not have to be delivered by prophets. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * We don’t. If humans have amnesia for a month, that means something is very seriously wrong (most likely brain damage) and that you should have gotten them to a medical professional a long time ago. As Crowley will soon find out, amnesia after twenty-four hours is the indicator for something being wrong, but still in the potentially fixable range.
> 
> ———
> 
> Take the hint, Aziraphale. Please!
> 
> Comments appreciated as always!


End file.
